Your Heart On The Line
by ZabellaCookie
Summary: John Watson can forgive. He can understand. But he can't forget the feel of a violinist's hands on his skin. Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade. THE FINAL MUMFORDVERSE GUYS.


THIS RIGHT HERE is a special shout out to **Robyn**, who reviewed The Mystrade Deviation. I felt absolutely honoured to be your first review, and I was really flattered! Since you were anonymous though, I couldn't respond ): So I did this instead. **YOU'RE AMAZING ROBYN!**

**FIC**

**BEGINS**

**HERE**

John can't say he's wasted away in Switzerland: there's just too much chocolate for that.

Not that he can tell anybody that joke. Five months, and he could have been a ghost, running hard and fast through the streets of Berne as the pale sun washes over the streets, his breath puffing in the air in front of him. Then to volunteer work, whatever he feels like that day, helping at an old peoples' home, a hospital, a dog rescue centre. Then back to The House, never Home, and sitting with his knees drawn up against his chest and his head tipped back against the wall, drawing constellations in the stains on the ceiling.

The first nights were a blur of salty cheeks and red eyes, but he stopped crying after a while. Not that he doesn't want to, but it's as if he doesn't have the energy. He devotes those grey hours to thoughts of Sherlock, and that's why he runs in the mornings, to burn off the residual thoughts of scarves and violins and stormy eyes. Nobody asks where he'd come from and how he lived, and every month comes the cheque in the mail from Mycroft, delivered by a man in a dark suit and a sympathetic look plastered on his face. John soon learned that there was nothing they could tell him about Sherlock.

His French got better. He learned some German. He doesn't speak English often; it feels strange on his tongue, almost like the words were refusing to come until his feet were on London soil again. He listens to many stories of Old Switzerland, mentally names dogs after British Prime Ministers in the dog rescue centre, and practices his French on some very patient homeless people. John loves working at these shelters for the lost and lonely. He feels like he's found kindred spirits in the businessmen who've lost their jobs and their family, the widows and the orphans, and even the addicts, shaking and sobbing as withdrawal grips their bodies, convinced they're going to die. He becomes a confidante, a friend and a mentor, to some. The army doctor with the hard drawn face.

One day, a girl works up the courage to ask him. He's in a soup kitchen, nursing a burnt hand and feeling quite the idiot.

"John..." he hears in the friendly shy voice of Bernadette, a pretty young woman who he's spoken to a few times.

"Yeah?" he answers, in French.

"You're English, _non_?" she asks tentatively, curling her hands in her apron. In his head, John hears Sherlock drawing breath to rebuke her in his mind, but he pushes his resident voice down fondly and smiles.

"Yes, I came here from London."

Bernadette takes a deep breath and rushes out the question she's been building up to. "Why?"

Thoughts of Mycroft's regretful face, Adelaide's pity, Sherlock's pale fist clenched around a gun and his eyes like splinters of frozen glass flit through his head, and for a moment he toys with the idea of spinning the whole tale, like a wise elder in the corner of a pub telling a fantastical story.

But then he realises he doesn't know the French for 'consulting detective'.

So he heaves a sigh and gives her a resigned smile. "I didn't have much of a choice," he says.

"Oh," Bernadette replies, and the matter is never raised again.

**BREAK**

John is at home when his mobile buzzes madly. Mycroft might not have the privilege of being on his speed dial, John put him on his contacts lists a long time ago, copying them all from Sherlock's phone while the man sat upside down in a chair beside him, waxing lyrical on the medicinal properties of goldfish. This was Before, and John remembers focusing on the crystal screen instead of Sherlock's mouth and mechanically typing numbers while actually listening dreamily to the timbre of Sherlock's voice.

John snatches up the phone jerkily, fumbles and answers breathless: "H-Hello?"

"Hello, John?"

John frowns in confusion. Those are certainly not Mycroft's unctuous vowels. He places the voice quickly, but the speaker beats him to the identification.

"Yes, it's Lestrade. Oh, yeah, I stole Mycroft's phone. I didn't think he could be trusted with this."

John is getting more confused by the moment, but even hearing an English voice and speaking English back is igniting a sharp scratchy hope in his chest, and he doesn't like it. He rubs futilely at the grey flannel over his chest, trying to get the emotions to recede. In all practicality, if this is just a social call, his unstable mental health may well just give up.

"What, what are you-I don't..._what_?" he splutters, aware that he sounds frantic and pathetic and needy, but hardly able to help himself.

Lestrade's voice softens. ""I better be quick, Mycroft's trying to kill me with his eyes. We got the last of them, John. You can come back. See you on the other side, mate."

He hangs up before John can reply. John sits with the phone pressed to his ear, beeping at him, and he has the peculiar sensation that everything is pressing down on him, his head is rushing and breathing is secondary. John squeezes his eyes shut and presses the phone harder to his ear, as if he can somehow, through the recent, tenuous connection, reach Sherlock.

He's startled from his stupor when there's a knock on the door. John springs up and stumbles towards the door, phone clattering from his fingers, entertaining the brief, wild hope that Sherlock is on the other side of the cheap wood.

John's sure his disappointment is visible when the dark-suited man is there. Wordlessly, a plane ticket is pressed into his hands for a flight two hours from now and there is a smile, small but there, on the dark-suited man. John can't get his throat clear in time to thank the man, and he watches mutely as the nameless figure walks away, whistling an irritating Swiss pop song that's being played constantly these days. John hates that bloody song, but he can't seem to escape it. It's being played just about everywhere in Switzerland. That's when the reality hits him.

He's never going to have to live in Switzerland again. He's leaving all of them, the dogs and Bernadette and the homeless people...and for a second he's guilty for disappearing without notice, but then pictures of London float into his head and a dizziness constricts his body.

Sherlock...

He packs in a whirlwind of action, throws on travelling clothes like a madman, wears the clothes he was wearing that fateful day at the swimming pool, thought of as his 'England clothes', never to be worn in Switzerland. That checkered shirt, leather jacket, jeans and boots were a promise to himself: 'You're going back'. Now the feel of the jacket around his shoulders and the boots encasing his feet are intoxicating. His luggage is only a satchel with essentials like a book and his battered laptop that arrived three days in on his doorstep. He books a taxi to the airport, and is there in time, thank God. He had a brief moment of irrational panic that if he missed this flight, he'd never get to go home. But not a moment too soon, he is strapped into an aircraft in midair, tapping his heel impatiently against the blue carpet.

Some little girl was chatting rapidly in German to her dad behind him, happy about their Easter break to London. John amused himself by trying to keep up with their conversation, but his German wasn't quite good enough. The Bern dialect was very different to the stuff he'd learned in school, but he'd had enough to pick some up. He got the shock of his life when a dark-haired cabin crew member reminded him of Sherlock so strongly his knee jerked involuntarily. But he turned, and he had brown eyes, and John felt something drop out of him. He reminded himself fiercely that he would see Sherlock in a matter of hours, a matter of minutes perhaps, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd already lost his chance.

John is maybe the only man standing still in Heathrow airport, and by all rights he should be rushing to the taxi rank. But he found his steps stuttering to a halt by a Costa Coffee, and now the wash of English conversations and London accents are pinning him to the spot. He's so happy to be back in England that he might burst, might tap the woman on the BlackBerry beside him and inform her gravely that she should _never_ emigrate. But he's jostled by a man in a tracksuit who makes a motion like he's going to spit at him, and the reverie is broken. John scowls and tuts at him. He feels like a Londoner again already.

John manages to hail a taxi just by being more aggressive and desperate than the tired and jetlagged people competing for them. He slides into the back of the cab and inhales that mix of cigarette smoke and cleaning fluid that permeates every black cab, and a stupid grin comes onto his face.

"Where to, mate?" asks the cabbie, twisting to look at him.

"221b Baker Street," John says reverentially and accentless, and the cabbie eyes him strangely, but pulls out into the London traffic. It takes too long of course, getting anywhere in London takes too long, but luckily he has the incredible London landscape to distract him. He's inordinately fascinated by red double deckers and red phone boxes, so much so that the cabbie starts taking the tourist route. John laughs when he realises.

"Don't you start, mate," he admonishes. "You need directions to Baker Street or something?"

The cabbie grumbles something unintelligible but he swings the cab left instead of right and five minutes later pulls up outside that black front door. John stares at it and a lump forms in his throat. The bronze numbers are gleaming, Mrs Hudson must have been doing nervous cleaning again. The curtains are drawn over their window, but John can see that streak of yellow spray paint and the fading black numbers on the glass from Sherlock observing the people on the street and calculating their BMI for fun. He sits there staring for so long that the cabbie clears his throat and says,

"That'll be twenty four quid, please."

It's extortionate compared to Swiss prices, but John doesn't say a word, just hands over crisp notes from the Bureau Du Change and steps out onto London pavement again, feeling a rush of nostalgia and affection for this city and its cracked paving and uneven curbs and Victorian lampposts. Oh, he loves this town. He does.

The cab growls away behind him, and John steels himself, jogging up the steps to the door, every motion seeming familiar and alien all at once. Taking one last, steadying breath, he lifts the brass knockers and lets it fall once, twice, three times.

Mrs Hudson isn't looking at him when she opens the door, she's preoccupied by the lint on her cuff, and John has time to swallow the lump in his throat. She looks just the same, his landlady (and definitely not his housekeeper).

"How can I help-" she starts, plucking one last time at her sleeve and looking up at him. The words die on her lips as their eyes meet and John feels a sheepish smile grow on his face. She looks very shocked, but then, they were led to believe he was dead. For five months. Understandable, really.

"-you..." Mrs Hudson trails off, and John can't tell if she's finishing her question or addressing him, but either way her arms are flung around his neck in moments and he nearly topples off the step. He laughs and steadies himself, hugging her back.

"Hey," he consoles her as he feels her shoulders shaking. "It's alright..."

Mrs Hudson glares up at him and manages to smack him upside the head from the hug she's giving him. "It is _not_ alright, young man," she scowls, and then something seems to hit her again, because she swallows and blinks hard before speaking again.

"They told us..." she manages, unable to actually say the words.

"I know," John says quietly. "It was necessary. I'm sorry."

Mrs Hudson pulls back and says briskly, "Not your fault, dear. Now, is my mascara running?"

John laughs. "Not at all. You look radiant."

Mrs Hudson gives him a smile. "Now that I've missed. There's been no gentlemen in this house since you...left."

John catches the verbal stumble, but Mrs Hudson is gone down the hall and he steps through the door and closes it with a quiet _snick_, leaning back against it and taking in the sight and the smell. Mrs Hudson catches his eye as she busies herself in her kitchen, and smiles understandingly. John returns the smile wanly, and at her impatient little motion, starts up the stairs.

He takes them one at a time, his steps heavy and nostalgic. He examines the wallpaper more than it's meant to be, delaying the confrontation for as long as he can. As always, he just doesn't know how Sherlock will react, and if he's honest he's just terrified Sherlock won't want him back. He's spent five months missing the man like he only had half his limbs, but who knew how Sherlock had reacted? What if he'd taken this opportunity to delete John and all his superfluous emotions from his hard drive? Or worse, what if he knew everything about Mycroft's plan, and now hates John for his part in it?

John finds himself at the top of the stairs, and swallows. The door to his flat looms in front of him, looking more ominous than it ever had. John examines it to put off actually going in, and observes that it's unlocked, the catch resting against the doorframe instead of fitting snugly inside the mechanism. Sherlock would be proud, he thinks idly, and presses his palm to the door and pushes.

It swings open smoothly, which surprises him. There's an arc of clear floor where the door has to pass through, but the rest of the flat's piled high with paper and books and odd little details from cases: shrunken heads, tribal masks and what looks like a yin yang symbol gouged into the wall next to the familiar yellow smiley face. There's the omnipresent scientific stuff, the microscopes and test tubes tottering on piles of bacterial samples. There's a miniature washing line of hair samples that catches his eye for a moment, but then as always, he is drawn to Sherlock.

The man is lounging on the couch in his blue silk dressing gown, letting it fall open to the floor, the belt trailing uselessly over what looks like a copy of 'The Art Of War'. Sherlock's silk-clad arm is flung over his eyes in a theatrical gesture, which niggles at John because he can't see the man's face properly. But just the lanky long-limbed figure of him draped over the furniture like a particularly lazy cat is enough to send his heart jumping up his throat. His eyes run down Sherlock's body, remembering in minute detail every inch of skin that lay below his clothes. He didn't notice when Sherlock moved, but when his eyes return to Sherlock's face, the arm is instead resting above his head, and one eye is cracked open in his direction.

"Hello again," Sherlock says conversationally.

"Wha-_Sherlock_?" John gapes.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on. We go through this every time. _You_ are the hallucination. Stop acting so shocked all the time."

John splutters, his mind faltering to a halt. Of all the reactions he'd expected, it hadn't been this one. But at the same time, his chest constricts at the thought of Sherlock having hallucinations. He can't think of an appropriate thing to say, so he kicks off his boots and shrugs off his jacket to give himself time to think.

"I wonder," Sherlock says musingly, arching his spine lazily and twisting to face him. "How much of this room is a fabrication of my own mind. For example, if you kick over a chair, is that me working a real situation into my delusions, or do you simply knock over a chair that only exists in my mind? It really is-"Sherlock finishes his stretch and flops bonelessly back on the couch "-intriguing."

John growls, an honest-to-God animalistic sound that bubbles up through his throat, surprising even him. Sherlock, though, looks unfazed, sliding an arm back over his eyes.

"You can go now," he says dismissively.

John stumbles over a pile of the collective works of Descartes and slips on a photograph of a severed hand, but he does manage to reach the couch unscathed, though his heart is pounding and an awful guilty fog is descending harshly on his brain as fear tightens his chest and slides over his ribs.

He kneels by the couch, just staring for a moment at the sharp and glorious contours of Sherlock's body. His hands brush Sherlock's silk-covered elbow reverently, before prising the limb away from Sherlock's eyes.

"That's new," Sherlock observes, but that's all he says. John, determined to ignore him anyway, slides a cold hand over the warmth of Sherlock's neck, feels his throat move as he swallows under his fingers. His calloused fingertips trace a path along the strong jawline, the pad of his thumb reaching up to brush across his cheekbone. All the time Sherlock watches him, unflinching, though John can feel his racing pulse. When Sherlock's face is cupped in his hand, John leans forward until his shaggy fringe brushes Sherlock's forehead. He takes slight pleasure in seeing anticipation buried under Sherlock's determined blasé gaze, in the swallow and shifting Sherlock indulges himself in.

Slowly and deliberately, John kisses him.

Sherlock's lips give willingly under his, and John apologises in every movement of his lips and every swipe of his tongue, curling his fingers in the silk lapels of the dressing gowns and leaning back, pulling Sherlock's reluctant torso with him. Sherlock breaks the kiss and both of them are breathing hard, desperation and want colouring every puff of air red. Sherlock collapses, his forehead hitting John's solidly, and he rests there, and John can hear him trying to bring his breathing under control. Both of them are kneeling now and facing each other, Sherlock's head resting on his. John's hands unclench from the dressing gown and slide slickly over the silk to Sherlock's back, pressing softly at his spine and hearing the delicious hitches in his breath.

"Don't..._John_."

It's the closest thing John has heard to a sob.

His name is ripped from the man's throat as if it was something forbidden, and the rawness scrapes at his heart and his mind. John has to hold back a sob of his own as he gathers Sherlock closer in his arms, wrapping limp arms alongside his stiff torso and pulling him forward and down, burying fingers in his hair and curling around him, bringing Sherlock's body as close to him as he can.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, over and over again. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock breathes brokenly, he's not quite crying but he's the closest John has ever seen him come in all the time he's known him. It shatters him, just a little bit.

"That doesn't _mean_ anything," Sherlock snarls in frustration against John's neck. "Seeing as you don't _exist_. John, _my_ John, is dead. You are just a _figment_."

But despite his words Sherlock is pressed against him, limp hands finally moving to clutch and John's shirt, his neck, his hair. John pulls him closer, hugs him tighter, but nothing could convince Sherlock he was really there.

"I'm not dead, Sherlock," John whispers frantically, carding Sherlock's curls with shaking, urgent hands. "Please...It was all faked. All of it. Mycroft had me tranquilised and faked my death so...well, I'm not entirely sure, but it was really important that the Nazi people believed I was dead. That meant everyone did. Everyone including you, Sherlock."

"That sounds just like something I'd make up," Sherlock says, burying deeper into John's chest, curling into a ball attached to him by grasping hands and digging fingers. John shivers, feeling Sherlock's breath on the hollow of his neck. "Blaming Mycroft for everything."

John stands, jerking upright because he can't think of something better to do. Sherlock is ripped from him but scrambles upright a moment later, looking for a moment like an island in his sea of paper. Very lost. Very alone, and John can't stand it. In a second his hands are on Sherlock's face again, and his lips are on Sherlock's lips again and their hips are pressed together. A moan slides seductively from Sherlock's throat as John tips his head back and licks deftly at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock's long fingers slide into his hair on one side and find his hips in a bruising grip in the other. For a moment it is only them, but then something cracks in Sherlock again, and the taller man turns his head away, and his hands waver on John's skin.

"You need," Sherlock says harshly, "You need to say something I wouldn't think of."

John sighs, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Something the great Sherlock Holmes hasn't thought of? He doesn't even know where to begin. He contents himself with the arrhythmic pumping of Sherlock's heart for a second, but he knows he has to speak now, or risk losing him forever.

"I don't know," he admits softly. "I don't know how to do that, Sherlock."

To his surprise, Sherlock laughs. "Oh, very well done."

John, non-plussed, tilts his head to one side. "Um..."

"I hate being wrong," Sherlock says, nuzzling John's neck. "Not even my hallucination's could admit to ignorance."

John laughs breathlessly. It takes him being wrong for Sherlock to believe he's not a figment of his imagination? Well, that's very flattering. But then, it's undeniably Sherlock. He kisses the man on his gorgeous hair, laughing into the locks.

"You're such an idiot."

"On occasion, perhaps," Sherlock admits, curling further into John's body. "I missed you."

John swallows. From aromantic, apathetic Sherlock, this is probably the closest he'll get to a rooftop declaration of love.

"I missed you too," he murmurs. "But...try not to kill Mycroft? For me?"

Sherlock looks at him with a raised eyebrow. John looks back pleadingly. He really doesn't want any family feuds over him, especially when said feud involves possibly the most powerful family in Britain, other than the Windsors.

Sherlock sighs. "Oh, alright. For you."

"Thanks," John says, smiling lopsidedly and holding him closer.

**BREAK**

God forgive him, but he's enjoying this.

Adelaide has a new boyfriend, of course. John might ask what happened to Rock Star from last year later, if Investment Banker keeps speaking so loudly. Like her brothers, John refuses to learn names until a wedding ceremony has taken place. It's just too much hassle otherwise.

Mycroft is treading on thin ice here, he can tell. But that doesn't stop Sherlock trying to find an excuse to gut his brother with a carving knife. They've discussed diets (Mycroft), unemployment (Adelaide) and they're now moving on to love lives. Dangerous territory, but Sherlock seems particularly vindicated in bringing it up.

Oddly, it's not John who's being discussed here.

"So why _is_ Lestrade here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks, twirling his fork menacingly.

"It's only polite that you call him Gerard in such an informal setting, Sherlock. Do try to remember your manners." Mycroft says non-chalantly.

"Come now Sherlock," Adelaide chimes in sweetly. "Don't tease poor Mycroft. I think they're rather cute, don't you?"

Sherlock simply raises an eyebrow at her. "I find it vaguely disturbing," he rebuffs.

"At least I don't drag my lover to swimming pools," Mycroft says, obviously very annoyed to be stooping to that level. John should probably be offended, or upset (Sherlock certainly is from the way his food is suffering), but Mycroft _did_ bring him back. And this is really fun to watch.

"At least I'm not cliché," Sherlock snarls. "Really, Mycroft, a police officer? I thought you had more originality than that."

Adelaide clucks. "Sherlock, your lover is a doctor. You could both make porn films out of your lives. Can we please get past this?"

"Be quiet Adelaide," both brothers hiss in unison, and promptly look irritated to have had the same thought process.

"I'm only trying to ease the family tension," Adelaide sniffs, as if deeply hurt, and examines her hair in the back of a spoon.

"Be nice, children," Mrs. Holmes says warningly. "Sherlock, don't be cruel to your brother. Mycroft, I wouldn't bring that up if I were you. And Adelaide, don't act so innocent. I know exactly what you're doing, young lady."

The Holmes brood quieten down sullenly. John grins at Lestrade, who looks faintly stunned.

"It's much easier now you're here," he says pleasantly. "It was hell last year: I thought Sherlock was going to throttle the pair of them."

Lestrade seems to breathe easier now somebody relatively sane is talking. "It doesn't seem fair that Adelaide doesn't get picked on for her choice of partner," he says musingly.

John shakes his head. "Just wait. They'll probably mention George in a minute."

Lestrade raises his eyebrows. "There's a George?"

"Was," John corrects, almost laughing. "Fourth husband. Died of 'mysterious stomach pains' a few years ago."

It's the air quotes that make Lestrade bite his lips to hold in the laughter. "Stop it," he complains. "We should be more mature."

"Oh yes," John smirks, indicating the Holmes siblings subtly. "As we're in such mature company."

Lestrade snorts, and the siblings stare at them like they're idiots.

"Good Lord," Adelaide says gleefully. "You've turned them insane."

"Isn't that what happened to Richard? Hallucinations, hearing voices..." Sherlock says nostalgically, as if recalling the good life of a dear, departed friend.

"Could have been those toxins they found in his allergy medicine," Mycroft says seriously.

"Could be," Sherlock nods, all enmity forgotten in favour of targeting the younger sister who has mocked their respective partners. John and Lestrade look on with a mix of fear and awe. John just hopes the two of them never work together outside these family spats. The world could be in serious trouble.

"Nonsense," Adelaide sniffs, picking delicately at her food, unlike Investment Banker, who is slowly sliding the plate away from him. "It was a genetic condition."

John bites his lip and avoids looking at Lestrade. If he does he'll start laughing again, and that would look very bad. Very bad indeed. Sherlock catches him in the act and smirks, and John nudges him with an elbow, trying to tell him to stop arguing and just eat his food.

Sherlock, of course, disagrees with that idea.

**Well guys, that's the end of the Mumfordverse. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for all the kind reviews you guys have given me along the way!**


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